


No Light At The End

by seeleyboothfan



Category: Glee
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Consensual Violence, Sexual Violence, Triggers: Anxiety, Triggers: Depression, Triggers: Self Harm, Triggers: Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:03:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seeleyboothfan/pseuds/seeleyboothfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Kurt and Blaine hadn't spoken on Thanksgiving. What if they never agreed to work things out. Instead, after the Break-Up, they never spoke again. Blaine's dying inside and that fabled Light At The End Of The Tunnel is missing, nowhere to be found. Warning - Triggering for suicide/depression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Age 14**

High School is hell.

Everyone talks about how nice kissing is and you feel so god damn alone. Why can't you enjoy it just like everyone else just because you're different? You push your friend for a kiss even though neither of you are ready. The kiss is awkward and too wet and his tongue leaves a line of spit on your lips. You wipe your hand across your mouth and turn your head to hide your tears. You ask him through tears to bring you home.

Is this what everyone was talking about? This lackluster feeling when you press your lips to someone else's? You spend the night wondering if maybe there's something more wrong with you than what you already suspected. You compose a long text between sobs that tells the boy that you felt nothing during the kiss and that you want a relationship where you enjoy kissing and can't wait until you can kiss again.

You probably could have stayed friends since you had so much in common but you instead are so heartbroken and upset with yourself that you push him away and put a stop to all communication between yourself. You don't go to school together so you never see each other again.

**Age 18**

Long distance relationships never work out. Everyone told you that when they found out about you two and warned that you should break it off before you get too close but you don't listen. You love them and you two will last forever, you know it. You're going to move in a year or two so that you can live together and really start your lives together.

They were right. It didn't last. You don't know if you've broken up officially until they confirm it very adamantly one night. It didn't help that you started pushing them away. At first you would spend hours rereading emails and texts. You'd rewatch every video you'd exchanged over the months. Gradually the pain becomes too much and one night you delete everything, even the few you'd transferred to your hard drive to preserve.

You regret deleting it all a few days later when you go to watch a video. You've been thorough and they're completely gone. You cry for hours that night when you realize this. You've always made rash decisions that you regret almost immediately. You hate yourself, probably more than everyone else hates you.

That person you pushed away, the one you loved with all your heart? They were the only person you could truly be yourself around. They were the only one who knew and understood your deepest and darkest secrets. They're gone now. They haven't spoken to you in almost half a year; do they even care about you anymore? Probably not.

**Age 21**

You used to have friends. Sure, over the years you started pulling away from each other, but it isn't until one night when you go to text someone about some good news from work that you realize you don't talk to them anymore. They're either engaged, married, or having children. Even that one girl who you thought would never amount to anything (she desecrated a cemetery at the age of 11 for god's sake) - she's married and pregnant.

You used to have a large group of friends. You realize you lost touch with them after you lost touch with the love of your life. They were *their* friends, not yours. They sided with them after the fight and break up.

You lose that happy feeling really quickly and you don't know what to do. You go to talk to your mom - you've stopped talking as often as before but she still smiles when she sees you. You try and tell her about how lonely you are and all the feelings of loathing and self-hatred but she just smiles and pats your back and gives you the "it'll be okay, honey" speech.

Sometimes you write notes that span pages of your notebook that speak to exactly what you're feeling. You never give them to anyone. You leave them out and hope someone will read them, but no one does. You want to cry for help but you know no one would really listen and if they did, they'd just pity you.

**Age 23**

Work is so tiring. You don't really get along with anyone and they barely spare you a glance. They seem to realize just how closed off you are and don't bother trying to engage you. Family and work functions are a chore. You spend most of the time hiding in a corner and pretending to message someone on your phone but there's no one who'd care to talk to you.

You are disgusted with yourself. You cannot accept the compliments (at least, the two or three you've ever gotten) - instead you follow up with a criticism of yourself.

You look at pictures of yourself and notice that your smile looks fake. Even the real smiles are strained because of the years of faking those smiles. Had you ever been truly happy?

**Age 24**

You pull open the fridge - it's full of booze and a packet of moldy bologna. You honestly don't remember when you purchased it. It's probably a few months old by now. For whatever reason you leave it in the fridge instead of throwing it away.

The booze doesn't help dull the pain. It's not even the kind that's enjoyable to drink. It burns too much going down your throat but you drink it anyway. It'd be easy to go out and buy some juice to mix it with but it takes too much energy and time and money so you just stick with the straight liquor. That's why your fridge is empty. It's too hard to go shopping. The lights are too bright and it's too loud and harsh.

It doesn't really matter that you don't have food - you wouldn't eat it anyway. You can barely stomach one meal a day and the meal you do eat can't even be classified as such. You get lightheaded for a while but then you are sucked into that mind-numbing pain again and you forget you were ever hungry.

You can't even look at your body anymore. It is disgusting but you don't do anything to fix it. You keep telling yourself you'll go to the gym after work but all you can do is curl up in bed and cry yourself to sleep most nights.

**Age 25**

You spend most night sobbing in the shower. The tears don't feel as real when they mix with the falling water. You turn up your music as loud as it will go and you scream along with it until you're too hoarse to continue.

After your skin has pruned beyond recognition you pull on the nearest clothing from the pile on your table and grimace at the smell. You don't do your laundry as often as it should be done and your dishes in the sink are weeks old. Your apartment is a mess but no one comes to visit, so who really cares what it looks like.

Each day you notice the pills in your cupboard, the razor on your bathroom counter, the rising water in the bathtub more and more. They are calling out to you. You'd never do it yourself, you lack the courage. It doesn't stop you from wishing with everything you have that you could leave this miserable existence.

You're so fucking lonely but you have no motivation to do anything. There are hundreds of books lying around your apartment but you have no energy to pick any of them up.

You wish you could see the future. If you knew for certain that you'd be happy at some point you could be okay with the pain of today. But you don't know and that hurts all the more. What if you work so hard to make things better and you still end up alone?

You masturbate almost every evening. It's an itch you try so hard to scratch but you can never reach that high. You stroke and massage until your hand can't unclench from the white knuckled fist and cry over how empty you still feel. You want to rip your skin off and then maybe the physical pain would match the emotional.

When the pain reaches its max, you wonder how long it would take for your family and coworkers to find your body. They probably wouldn't realize you were gone for a while. You have pulled away so much that you can go days without seeing someone and that's become the norm.

You hope and pray and wish for that light at the end of the tunnel but it's never ending and the pain and loneliness just won't go away. Where is that blissful black and quiet that would be so easy to achieve if only you got the nerve to take care of it yourself? It's just around the corner, all you have to do is take those steps.

If only there was someone who loved you enough to bring that light. It's too late now. Nothing can take away that pain so deeply rooted in your very existence.

You take a few more breaths and fall asleep all alone. Forever alone.

 

**Age 27:**

You've tried to forget about the events from two years ago: the visit to the hospital to pump your stomach of all the pills you swallowed, the look on your mother's face when you awoke from the procedure, the disgust and disappointment on your peers faces because they know why you were out of work that week, the pit in your stomach when you realized you were unsuccessful and still stuck here, the hate you feel for yourself for trying to take the easy way out... everything.

That doesn't help your situation any. If anything, it's worse because everyone feels like they either have to avoid you or walk on egg shells when they're around you and that's the last thing you wanted. You were already so fucking lonely, so why would _more_ isolation be beneficial? For the month post “Incident” as they referred to it, they had you live with them, suffocating you and asking you how you felt every.fucking.minute of the day. As if your mood will change after you've eaten your dinner. Or pretended to eat, because you really don't have the energy or motivation to eat anything.

After a month, you have managed, somehow, to convince them that you're okay. They follow you home and empty your house of all your pills and knives and anything else you could kill yourself with. “Are you going to remove the tub, too?” you joke, as if it's funny. It's not.

You go to the shelter a few months Post Incident and adopt a cat. The thing doesn't have any special markers or any special attractiveness – it is simply a black cat. You name him Mr. Darcy after Pride and Prejudice. Maybe a strong name will lead to a strong personality. He follows you around, but, unlike your parents, he's not suffocating. He's a good friend, probably your best friend, and you spend all your time together.

He cuddles up in your arms when you fall asleep, nestled in your armpit, body warm against yours. You love him. For the first time in your life, you know true love. You realize you have someone 100 percent dependent on you and that is the thing that changes your life. Not your parents love, not your job, not anything but a silly little cat that came to be in your life.

Things don't change that first year, you just power through each day with just enough effort to get things done, but not done perfectly. Gradually, your attempted suicide becomes backburner to the affair your boss is having, so people start to actually talk to you again.

You make a semi-friend in your coworker, the one you spend every day with?, and you enjoy your conversations. You get startled when you realize you're smiling one day, a real smile, something you haven't done in so very long.

The next year, things keep getting slowly better. You make a few more semi-friends and your family gatherings aren't as hard to get through because they've decided to ignore your issues and they let you live at your own pace.

You're proud of how clean you keep your apartment and how decently stocked your cupboards and fridge are. You do laundry every week and you shower every other day if not every day. You take care of your appearance and you feel as confident as you can be in these circumstances.

A few months after your 27th birthday, you go on your first date since... _them_. You haven't thought about _that person_ since you broke up, except for that weird stretch of time where you tried to reconnect and after a week, they seemingly disappeared off the face of the world again. And you weren't the type of person to push when you knew there wasn't interest on their part.

You know you're going to compare this new person to your old love because you loved them and they were perfect for you in every way. They knew your darkest secrets and they loved you anyway. They'd even said that they loved you _because_ of them. This new person though, they'll have to do, for now.

The date goes so well that you're surprised. You spend the whole night talking about anything and everything. Not about the deep dark things, but mundane, surface things. You bond over games and songs and TV shows and books and it's fun. You haven't laughed that long and hard in a long time.

You agree you want to go out again. He smiles at you and moves for a kiss at your doorstep, but you pull back with a nervous giggle and thank him for the lovely evening. He doesn't even look disappointed. He nods in understanding and waits until you get inside before leaving.

You think you're the most naïve and childish person that night for holding out. You're nearly thirty for god's sake, the least you could do is kiss the guy who paid for your dinner.  Next time, you promise, next time you will. And maybe for once you'll enjoy the kiss. It has to happen sometime, right? A enjoyable kiss? It's worth a try. The worst that could happen is that there's no chemistry and you stay friends.

**Age 30:**

So, that first guy you dated after nearly 10 years of singledom? Yeah, no chemistry there. It was disheartening but you got over it. You met a few more guys after that and they were an interesting bunch. The second guy, you and he had a lot of chemistry. So much that you fell into bed on the second date. It was hot but you regretted the whole thing the next morning when the ache had set in. It hadn't even been enjoyable for you. He was too rough and too fast and you weren't prepared. You cry yourself to sleep that next day, your cat your only true companion.

The third guy is gentle and sweet and after a few weeks of dating, you make love and it's not perfect, but it's enjoyable and you wash away that horrible first time memory. You last a few months until he finds someone hotter and better than you but you don't ever regret your time together. You thank him when he leaves which he finds odd because he doesn't get why you're thanking him. It's not for leaving, it's for having given you something beautiful even if it didn't work out.

The fourth and fifth guys are okay. Nothing special but they help pass the time until you are thirty. By this time, all your semi-friends are on kid number three and happy and healthy marriages. You get that bone deep lonesome feeling again and you think for a split second that maybe you should reach out to _them_ again. You don't know how and even if you did, you probably wouldn't, but it doesn't stop you from imagining it for a few days.

It doesn't matter that you didn't know how to reach that person, the one who turned it all to hell. They find you. One spring day you're in the park and you're resting your eyes and you hear _that_ voice, the one you hear in your dreams but don't admit that you still dream about them. They call out your name and you shoot up, disbelief running through you. 

They look like a dream. No really, that dream you have of them, it's like it came to life. They've aged gracefully and you blink quickly, trying to make sense of it all. They aren't even supposed to be in this country. They're supposed to be halfway across the world from you.

They come closer and goddammit they're even more beautiful closer up and all you want is to be one with them. A part of their body, mind, spirit, love. You want to lose yourself in them. It's so sudden and overwhelming that you fall to your knees in front of them.

They kneel down too and take you in their arms and suddenly the whole world, tilted and not quite right, is put back on it's axis and spins at the right speed and you feel like you're living again, really, truly living.

They start crying and your tears fall together into the dirt but you could care less. You've found each other. Nothing has been solved, but you've found each other. You have a lot to deal with and all this emotional trauma you've caused in each other lives, but you've found each other. You don't even know if they'll take you back, but you've found each other. You've never stopped loving them and you've found each other.

The start of the rest of your life is here and you're ready for it.

**Age 31:**

Things are good for a few months. _That person_ , the one who you found, lost, and found again – they're just a perfect as you remember. You are fully, truly happy for the first time in years and your future looks bright. You've talked for hours upon hours about what went wrong. You've apologized again and again for your short temper and all the horrible things you said. You apologize for pushing them away and they forgive you.

You'd forgotten just how warm they were, how easy it was just to fall into them and twist around them, and breath with them. You forgot just how nice it was to be yourself around them and not face judgment or ridicule. Everyone comments how happy and healthy you look and it makes you feel like a million percent.

One quiet day you tell them about how you tried to kill yourself. Their face falls but they look compassionate. They nod and hold you closer; you feel the tears from their face drop down on your cheek as they rock you back and forth. They tell you they love you and how beautiful you are and how thankful they were that you are there. You know they'd tried to kill themselves before, that they have experienced the hopelessness and loneliness that caused you to try to end everything.

You start to make plans for the future. You start the process to get your Visa so that you can move to England together, like you'd always planned. You've always meant to leave America, have a clean slate in another country that will accept you for who you are, allow you to marry this person that you love with all your heart.

Somewhere down the line, you realize you're drifting apart. You're not living together because you're still finding yourselves, still learning how to grow and be and live in the same place again. Days start to pass where you don't see or talk to them. At first, you shrug it off. You're both busy, your schedules are different, you live far enough away that it's difficult to stop over for visits.

Once, two weeks have passed without even a single text, you start to worry. You try to call them but there's no answer. No response on Skype, no returned email, no answer to your ask on Tumblr. You know you seem desperate with the amount of ways you tried to reach them, but you don't know how else to get back in touch with them. You cry yourself to sleep that night, wondering if you did something wrong, thinking back to all the conversations from before, second guessing what you said and did and you contemplate the razor, thinking maybe if you cut your skin to pieces, your heart will hurt less.

Two more weeks pass, still no word. You refuse to seek them out. They know where you live, they know all your contact information, they can find you if they really want. You need to yell and scream and lash out and you want to hurt them the way they hurt you. You write a completely furious post on Tumblr, wanting the world and _that bitch_ to know just how much pain you're in. You put their name on the post in the tags, making sure they know 100 percent that it's about them. 

You feel better after you posted it. They didn't respond to your posts or communications in the past month, so you doubt they'll read what you wrote, but you feel good that your anger can be seen and heard and maybe they'll see just how much they've hurt you by ignoring you.

Four weeks later, you finally receive communication. They saw your post and they have the _balls_ to say that _they're_ the one who's hurt. That they never saw your communications. You know that's a lie. You tried every single way, even on Tumblr, where they are on _every single day_. You get more mad than you've ever been before. How dare they make you feel like crap when it's _them_ who was pushing you away?

They finally tell you – they going back to Europe and you're not coming with. They didn't know how to tell you, so they instead pulled away. They hadn't wanted to hurt you, but them ignoring you hurt worse than the actual admission. “Things aren't working out” they say. “Nothing is like it was before” they say. “I deserve better” they say. _You're not good enough for me_ is what you hear. _I'd rather be alone than be with you. I don't love you anymore. Maybe I never loved you at all._

You let them go. You love them enough to let them walk away. You know that once you've said goodbye, you're done for good. It had hurt before, the first time you broke up. This time, it's truly the end. Before you'd found them again, before you'd reopened the last few pieces of your shattered heart to love, you'd been lost. You'd given up on life for a long time, but somehow you'd gotten better.

You don't know if you'll recover this time. You hug before they leave, holding on a bit too tightly, taking a deep breath. The door closing signals the end of everything good in your life. It should be surprising but it's not, how quickly you've shut yourself in your bathroom. The water in the tub is scalding, but you drop yourself in anyway. You're silent as you pry apart your razor, holding the sharp blade in your fingers. You don't feel the pain as the metal rips through your flesh in deep and multiple cuts.

Once the blood is pouring out rapidly enough to satisfy you, you drop the razor to the floor, letting your head tip back to thump against the shower wall. Your whole body is shaking with the pain your heart is causing you. You hate yourself, you hate your circumstances, you hate the person who just walked out of your life – even if you still love them with every fiber of your being.

Your last thought as you finally, truly, completely slip away from the earth is that maybe things would have been different if you had the ability to love yourself. They always say you cannot love others until you love yourself. They always say that the only way to truly be happy is

**Age 32**

Life is good, once you return to Europe. America always felt stifling to you; it was always difficult to breathe when you were there. _They_ were not any help. They clung to you, suffocating you, until you couldn't stand it anymore.

When you had found each other 2 years ago, things seemed right. You both apologized for all the hurtful things you'd said to each other and you'd felt ready to forgive them for pushing you away. The good times didn't last. They were quieter than normal, more reserved, and it felt like they were dragging you down.

You knew what you had to do, even though you knew it would hurt them. You knew you had to leave. You're too cowardly, too selfish to tell them until it's almost too late. You have this need to hurt them like they hurt you before. You pull away, unable to face them or speak to them. Those eyes still haunt your dreams, those eyes that stare right into your soul.

A few weeks after you pulled away from them, they write this hurtful post for all the world to see, your name bright and loud at the bottom of it. It stings, their words, even though you know they're right. You respond, lying about how you hadn't seen their texts and emails. You say how hurt you are that they could say that about you, swallowing down bile as you hit send.

You finally get up enough courage to tell them the truth: you're leaving and they're not coming with. You almost want to take your words back when you see just how devastated they look. It's like their world is ending, as if they've been informed that the sun exploded and they only have a day left to live... you really need to stop watching those Twilight Zone reruns.

They keep clutching onto you, asking you through tears that are pouring down their face: “Why?” There's so much you want to say, the truth of it all: _I don't love you anymore. You are a burden. I never thought I'd prefer being alone over a relationship until this very moment._ “Things aren't working out,” you start out, biting your lip when their face falls. “Nothing is like it was before,” you continue. “You have to have noticed the change. We're not compatible anymore.” You pause, debating whether you should continue. “Honestly, I deserve better,” you whisper, turning your back on those eyes that you know will haunt you forever, so heartbroken and lost.

“I'm sorry that I'm not good enough,” they say, voice deep with sadness. “Please, just don't forget me. Don't forget what we shared. There were good moments, before... right?”

You nod and manage a small smile. “There were.”

Tears are flowing quickly from their eyes when they pull away. “I love you so much,” they breathe out, deflating in on themselves. “I'll love you until I die. I'm sorry that that wasn't enough.”

“I'm sorry, too.”

Before you can move towards the door, they launch themselves at you, gripping you tightly enough that you're sure there'll be a bruise. “I hope you can be happy in England. Happier than with me.” They pull away and take a few steps back. “Goodbye.”

You are slightly surprised at the lack of fight. You thought they'd beg you to stay, but other than the tears, they're letting you leave without a fight. You try not to think about it as you make your final arrangements for your move back to England. You focus instead on your new life.

There are a lot of attractive guys in England and you spend your first few months back falling in and out of bed with them. You enjoy how sexy and desirable they make you feel. Your forget about _that person_ almost completely until one night, no different from any other. You're in the middle of fucking the Flavor of the Day when suddenly a flash of hazel eyes goes through your mind and you have the phantom feeling of curls under your fingers.  Your orgasm takes you by surprise, _their_ name falling from your lips.

You pull out of them without another thought, leaning back on your heels, a ringing filling your ears. You vaguely hear a grumble, glancing down at the person below you. “You gonna help out here?” they ask, pointing at where they are still clearly unsatisfied. You blankly shake your head, mind full of images of you and _that person_ that you were trying so desperately to forget.

Your fuck buddy, _Brian? Ben?_ , glares at you, reaching down and taking care of themselves before yanking on their pants and slamming the door when he leaves. You lay back in bed, sucking in a deep breath, idly pulling your condom off and dropping it into the trashcan next to your bed.

You haven't thought of _them_ in months. You don't know what you'll say, but you try calling them, their phone number one you've never been able to forget. You blink in confusion when the automated voice says the phone number's been disconnected. You hang up and try again, getting the same message a second time. It's been a long time since you last talked, so it's plausible that their phone number's changed.

You try their cell phone next. It goes straight to voice mail. You hang up without leaving a message. You don't know why, but you break out in a cold sweat, your stomach feeling heavy.

The laptop takes a few minutes to fully power up. You quickly pull up a search, suddenly desperate to get information on them. You're about to click on an article about their work until the title of the article below, written 2 years prior, captures your attention: “Gay Man Commits Suicide in New York: The First in Years.” You click it open without a second thought.

The article has a large picture of them, their face graced by a serene smile. Your eyes catch on random details: “...only 31 years old” “...slit wrists.” “in his house alone...” Your eyes are stuck there: “alone”

You flick your phone open and press redial. “Hi, this is Blaine and Darcy,” there's a small mewl. He must have held the cat up to the phone. “We're not able to come to the phone, but please leave a message and we'll call you back.”

After the beep, you growl out, “Blaine, you'd better pick up right now. That article has to be some sick joke. Pick up, goddammit.”

You smash the end call button, pain shooting from the pad of your finger to your palm. You press redial.

“Hi, this is Blaine and Darcy. We're not able-”

You end the call once more, pressing redial immediately.

“Hi, this is Blaine and Darcy-”

End call. Redial.

“Hi, this is Blaine-”

“Hi, this is-”

“Hi-”

You throw your phone across the room, falling hard to your bed. You remember some of the last words he ever said to you. “ _I'll love you until I die_.” If the date on the article was correct, he killed himself that very same night. You feel guilty, even though you know it's not your fault, not truly. You were the last straw in a series of very unfortunate circumstances in his life, but you did not make him commit suicide. You did not force the blades into his hand. Those thoughts don't stop the guilt from washing over you.

You pull out four different bottles of alcohol, pouring glass after glass until the pain is dulled slightly. You fall back into your bed, the last thought before unconsciousness takes you over is of Blaine, young and beautiful, smiling up at you on the Dalton Grand Stairway, taking your hand and running towards your future, a future that neither of you realized that you would never get to have.

**Epilogue**

You open your eyes and stare at the stark white ceiling above you, blinking slowly. You feel weightless, as if you're floating above the ground. After a few moments, you glance around. The room you are in is devoid of objects and colors. You notice in passing that you yourself are naked.

You sit up slowly, eyes trailing up your arms, noting each and every scar, some still red and seeping, others long since healed. It's as if you're staring down at yourself from somewhere far away; there is no feeling in your body – no warmth, no vigor, no pain.

The last memory you have is closing your eyes in the tub as you bled out.

A movement in your periphery gains your attention. One of the walls is starting to brighten. You turn your head to stare as the images start to appear, blurry at first, but sharpening slowly.  It takes a moment for you to recognize what you're seeing: it's bits and pieces of time from your life.

_Learning to ride a bike._

_Your first day at Dalton._

_Your first solo._

_The day you met Kurt._

_Your first kiss._

_Your first date._

_Your first time._

Each and every image is of the happiest moments of your short life. You can't help but smile, your unbeating heart flipping in your chest.

As the images start to fade, you see the wall to your right flicker to life. This time you don't recognize the images.

_Your wedding day._

_Your first house._

_Your first child._

_Your first grandchild._

_Spending your fiftieth anniversary with Kurt in Hawaii._

It's as if you're looking into a crystal ball, seeing images of a future that unfortunately was made impossible. Even as the images taunt you, you can't stop the smile on your face.

Those images too fade.

The third wall holds images you also don't recognize, but unlike the first two walls, these images don't make you smile.

_Your landlady discovering your body in the bathtub._

_The police informing your parents of your death._

_Your family in tears at your funeral._

_Your cat being sent to the shelter._

You feel the tears pouring down your face, but your heartbreak feels distant, as if you're feeling it from afar. What you did in taking your life lead to so much pain for those who knew you and loved you. If you could truly feel, you know you'd be wracked with guilt.

Instead, you turn to look at the last wall, curious as to what you'll see. Instead of random images, you see everything in real time, starting from the moment Kurt left your apartment.

_You see his ups and downs as he moved away._

_The day he realized you had died._

_The day he finally learns to forgive himself for what was never his fault._

_The day he opens his heart to love again._

_The day he embarks on his career path._

_The day he starts a family._

_You see him grow old._

Lastly, you see the moment he dies, surrounding by family and friends as he fades away. You sit back, letting it all sink in – the life you had, the life you could have had, the lives you changed with your death, and the life that lived on without you.

You don't know how much time has passed since you started reflecting, but soon you realize that the room you occupy is no longer bare. Instead, it's awash with light and color. There's a door in front of you and you're dressed in what appears to be jeans and a polo, an outfit from many years ago.

Before you can begin to question the changes, the door opens. Kurt, beautiful, sweet, seventeen year old Kurt, peeks his head in. “Are you ready?”

“Kurt?” You notice that your voice isn't as deep as it had become in the last few years of your life. It's back to the way it was in high school. “What are you doing here?”

Kurt smiles at you, stepping into the room. “I've been waiting for you to be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Ready to forgive yourself. Ready to move on.” Kurt stops in front of you, a serene smile on his face. “Ready to start over.”

You blink in confusion. “Start over?”

Kurt nods, reaching out and gripping your hands tightly. “You never got a fair chance in life. There was so much potential that was lost because you were never given the chance to succeed. You're something special and you're getting your second chance.” He presses kisses to your hands, smiling up at you again.

“Is this for real?”

Kurt nods. “They're going to take away your anxieties and pain. Would you like to see what we can achieve if you're given a fair chance?”

“We? Are we still...”

“Together?” Kurt beams, nodding. “Without your depression and anxiety, you never ended up at Dalton. Instead, you stayed at Westerville High. You and I met at the mall there. I was getting great deals at Macy's and you were just finishing up your shift at the Gap.” Kurt snickers, as your face brightens with a blush. “You struck out with Jeremiah and I saw you sitting glumly in the food court. I bought you lunch and we hit it off. I think we're falling in love, we just haven't said it yet.”

“I love you so much, Kurt.”

“I love you, too, Blaine.”

You lean forward and kiss him, a chaste press of lips, both of you smiling too widely to turn it into anything more. “I'm ready.”

Kurt stands up and offers you his hand. “I know a shortcut.”

You grasp his hand and make for the door, both ready to start your life together, your second chance at something you deserve – a life without the unnecessary pain and worry. A life full of love. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this is a sort of unrelated one-shot that I added to this story because the POV fits. It ended up not really fitting into the story, but once I started writing, I couldn't stop. Trigger warnings - this is darker than anything else I've ever written. It's a very dark D/S story with a not happy ending. You've been warned.
> 
> As before, typos and grammatical errors could abound - I have a hard time proofreading darker stories like this, so I leave the drafts rougher than my other stories. I apologize in advance.

 

**Age 18**

You're in love… at least you think you are.

You met him online in a chatroom, one you'd stumbled across at two in the morning on the dark side of the internet. You'd gotten drunk on your Dad's whiskey and got lost in dreams of being held down and fucked. When you got up to pour your third glass, you'd stumbled over to the laptop and searched through 'bondage', 'domination', 'punishments' and finally 'sexual torture' before you found the site (you'd had a few moments of throwing up in your mouth at some pictures and descriptions that were much darker than you'd anticipated, included much more blood than you thought should be normal in sex).

You ended up passing out. You were lucky enough to wake up before your Dad returned home, delete the browser history (after memorizing the name of a few sites that peaked your interest, and get through the nasty hangover.

A few nights later, you got the courage to actually peruse the sites for real. You found one that seemed fairly tame. You lurked on the outskirts of a few of the chatrooms until you finally logged into the site and joined one, 'D/S for Dummies', and within minutes you'd received a DM.

_PainWithoutLove: Loving the screename. If you're interested in finding a Sir, I'm in the market for a new Sub._

You'd felt your body flush, sudden excitement filling your bloodstream. You'd attempted to type out a response, but your fingers were shaking so much that it was full of typos. You corrected the mistakes and read through the sentences before finally pressing send, waiting with bated breath for his response back.

_ToSirWithLove: Thanks – it's one of my favorite songs. As far as me being your Sub, you don't even know who I am._

The response was instant.

_PainWithoutLove: I read your profile – Blaine Anderson, 18 year old boy from Ohio. Seeing as you're on an intro to D/S site, I'm going to guess you're new to the scene. Close?_

You felt your heart clench painfully. You didn't realize just how public your profile was. Before you could respond, you received another message.

_PainWithoutLove: Don't bother looking me up – I don't broadcast my details online. You need to be more careful, sweetie – you never know who could be on the other side of the screen._

You'd never admit to anyone what the endearment made you feel.

_ToSirWithLove: Why don't you tell me about yourself, then?_

_PainWithoutLove: It's not that easy, sweetie. I like to do full introductions face to face. Let's just say I'm someone who has a special part in his heart for Subs in need._

_ToSirWithLove: "his heart" – you're a guy, then._

_PainWithoutLove: Indeed. Not that that fact was too difficult to realize. This *is* a site for gay men, sweetie._

The conversation dwindled at that point. Feeling suitably immature and naïve, you'd been about to log off before he'd sent you an address and phone number, asking you to meet the next afternoon.

_PainWithoutLove: I won't expect you to be on your knees for me or address me as Sir tomorrow… That's for later._

He'd logged off a few seconds later, not letting you respond. You were quick to save his number into your phone (you'd blushed and put it under Sir) and googled the address, feeling a bit more sure about things when you saw it was a coffee shop in a very public area of town.

* * *

That was three months ago. The visit had gone rather well. You'd be shocked that he was in his late twenties, but he'd been nothing but kind and complimentary. He'd told you the basics of how he'd gotten into the scene (not too different from yourself except for the fact he was a Dom) and asked you about yourself. He'd kissed you before depositing you at your car and you were on Cloud Nine the whole drive home.

You'd texted back and forth for a few days before he invited you to his home. He put you through a very basic, very vanilla scene, but you'd been sobbing at the end and he'd pulled you into his arms and rocked you until you'd calmed down enough to accept the bottle of water for you.

These feelings you have for him are refreshing, new… intense. You had no idea it could feel like this. He's all you can think about and any moment that you're apart, you're lost. His touch is electric – you feel it all the way to your toes… but it's not always good… or desired.

You'd told him once while recovering from a scene about some of the darker fantasies you'd had and suddenly it was like he became a different person. Even if you'd never truly wanted any of the things you'd pictured in your mind, it was as if you'd given him free reign to do any and all of it to you.

He started with the less dark things – spanking, calling you names, forcing you to masturbate in front of one of his friends, and other things that made you feel humiliated. It came to a point where you no longer wanted to go to his house, but you just couldn't seem to stay away. He found some way to lure you back, if only because he was the only person who paid attention to you.

There are times where his touch is the last thing you want, but no matter how urgent your request to just leave you alone right now, he finds some excuse to continue to touch. Gradually, you resign yourself to your fate. Maybe, the less you struggle, the quicker it'll be over… the less disgusted you'll feel.

It doesn't seem to matter though. You still feel like you're being used and you leave him feeling dirty and lost. You'd leave him for good if it wasn't for the fact that he's able to tap in to that tiny part of you that gets a sick pleasure out of being hurt and insulted… dominated by someone who pushes no matter your protestations. He's know from previous research that Doms are supposed to take care of their Sub, make sure they always know they're safe, even in the worst scene. But, you never feel safe with him. Instead of being satisfied after an encounter, you want to scrub your skin raw until you're bleeding out all the pain.

You cut yourself once, just to see if  _actually_  bleeding it out would help… it didn't. Instead, you end up with an ugly scar that you can't erase no matter how hard you try.

Today had been a bad day. Where he'd normally start the encounter with whispered words of affection before the tear down process, he'd nearly ripped your clothes in his haste to unclothe you, his eyes bright with a dastardly flame.

He called you horrible, unrepeatable names, taunting you as he pinched and pulled at your sensitive flesh, saying no one else could ever want you, that you were stuck with him. He'd been quick to force you prostrate on the bed and the ropes had been exceptionally tight against your already raw wrists and ankles.

Hot wax had been his preferred method of torture today and not one area of your body had been safe from the scalding.

As his eyes wander over his destructive masterpiece, he spotted the jagged scar. A twisted smile crossed his face. He left you tied down and went to his kitchen. Your body quickly becomes damp with a cold sweat, your naked body twisting and pulling desperately on the restraints as you try to free yourself.

He's left you alone, lying in a disgusting puddle of your unwilling pleasure and his own that's been slowly dripping out of you. Just as the numbness starts to settle in, he returns, something glinting in his hand. It's a butcher's knife, one of the sharpest in the house. A gasp of horror escapes your lips, a noise he's quick to mute with a gag he'd purchased for this specific use.

He chuckles darkly, waving the knife over your face. "If I'd had any idea you were into blood-play, I'd have started this weeks ago," he remarked with an eerie calmness, stroking the knife up and down your chest and stomach.

You hiss as the knife barely catches on your nipple, frantically shaking your head as tears run down your face.

"No?" he asks with a hint of amusement. "What have I told you about rejecting me? Are you asking me to punish you? You know I don't accept anything but compliance from you." He digs in the tip of the knife on the next pass and you feel your skin being pieced on the long path downwards.

Your body flinches at the white-hot pain and saliva gurgles in the back of your mouth as you desperately try to fight him.

"Beautiful," he comments, trailing his fingers through the blood. He holds his hand up to the light and he smiles at it. After a few seconds, he glances back down at you, letting his blood-soaked fingers brush along your upper and lower lip. "My gorgeous boy," he whispers. "My painted whore."

With no hesitation or even an indication, the knife in his hand flicks out and catches the skin of your lower arm much deeper than the wound on your chest. He gathers up more blood and paints it along your eyelids and even dabs a bit high on your cheekbones. He'd made you up with your own blood. "You always look good in red."

You've given up trying to get away. The binds are much too tight and he has the knife against your skin. You start to drift as he carves the knife into even more of your skin. You notice, in a tiny corner of your mind, that you've slowly been becoming hard the more blood he draws from your body. You still don't understand why your body reacts this way – to pain, humiliation, degradation…submission.

He must notice your erection a few minutes later because suddenly the knife is removed from your skin and a sudden, tight, wet heat engulfs you. Your eyes shoot down and all you can see is red- the blood from your wounds, the spit-slicked skin of his lips around you.

You can't help but grunt and whine around the gag. It's as if he's sucking the orgasm straight out of you. You blink furiously when a drop of blood trickles into your eye and your body convulses on the bed as the knife goes much deeper than before, even though he seems extremely focused on forcing you into another orgasm, oversensitivity making everything hurt ten times worse.

He wipes his mouth when he finishes riling you up again, a gloating smile on his face. He brushes a hand roughly along one of the largest slices on your chest, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from you. He undoes the gag from around your face, but before you can swallow or relax your jaw, he puts in its place a device that forces your jaw even further open.

"My turn," he whispers, pulling himself out of his slacks, rubbing a gentle finger over your jaw which is tense and trembling. He forces himself into the cavern of the device and almost completely down your throat. The muscles in your throat spasm in protestation and your lungs squeeze painfully with the lack of air. Your nose filled with snot long ago, blocking off the airway. He seems to realize this when your body goes limp with the oxygen deprivation. He scowls and pulls out. "You're so fucking defective today; can't you do anything right?" He reluctantly removes the device and you finally can close your mouth after sucking in multiple lungfuls of air.

He pushes your knees up so that your hole is visible to him. "Guess we'll be doing it this way instead." He strokes himself a few times before he lines himself up and enters you in one long thrust. The lube from earlier has long dried, so the slide is hindered by the tackiness. He doesn't care… he's never cared. Sometimes he lets it dry out on purpose.

You didn't notice that he'd picked the knife back up until there's another flash of pain, this time along the base of your neck, along your collar bone. "Tell me you love me," he grunts, hips pistoning frantically.

"L-" you rasp, voice unused in much too long, the pain almost too much to handle. "Love you," you finally bite out, mouth surely turned down in a grimace.

"Good. Don't forget it." With one last cut along your sternum, he focuses all of his attention to fucking you as hard as he can. You wonder if you're losing enough blood to die, or if he'd kept the cuts to places that would only cause enough pain to  _want_  to die.

After he's released inside of you, he slumps down, weakly undoing your restraints so that he can force you to cuddle, a sick imitation of the act you couldn't be less interested in doing. "You know I hate having to punish you," he murmurs, stroking a hand through your sweat-soaked hair. "If you wouldn't resist me, I wouldn't have to. All you have to do is admit that you're sick and broken, that I'm providing you the depravity you're seeking and everything will be much better for you… for us."

He gets up a few moments later and carefully cleans your wounds. You're still so weak that you don't even cry out when he pours the alcohol on the biggest wound. He comments again and again just how beautiful and perfect you were for him, just how much he loves you and cherishes you and you can't help but feel happy for the first time in the night. He might be harsh and he might be cruel, but he loves you. Maybe if you were a better sub, he wouldn't have to hurt you so much.

* * *

**Life's been really rough recently and I needed to get all these feelings and ideas out and this seemed the safest way.**


End file.
